


no harm (for blue skies)

by jeanjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex Mentions, Beach House, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overdosing, Phobias, Recovery, Road Trips, Sickness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no exy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: Whenever he thinks of recovery, Neil Josten irremediably thinks of water. Never-ending horizons of dark seas, of bottomless oceans, entire universes in the reflection of a sunset. And really, he’s never thought it necessary to go there until his drug addiction leads to an overdose, which leads to his lonely roommate Jean taking him to the sea to withdraw—and learn how to heal, one day at a time.(Or, two roommates who can’t seem to get along embark on a long trip to recovery and so much more.)





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> First chap of my participation for the aftg big bang 2018! please thank the artist featured on my work who has done an amazing work with the illustrations; you can go check her blog or reblog the fic’s drawings [right here](https://my-mind-inspiration.tumblr.com/post/178595322454/heya-absolutely-belated-i-post-the-picture-for) at my-mind-inspiration. thank you so much Kym!  
> the title comes from boxer’s rebellion [no harm](https://youtu.be/EgU1lk9pLBQ) and strays don’t sleep’s [for blue skies](https://youtu.be/UWKP1SwHVqI)
> 
> here is [my tumblr](http://innersystem.tumblr.com) (previously wesninskids) and here is the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/0ybTncANa7gHgMdLha3VIc?si=WmSetUwoRKuFTAdu8nNSbg) made of the accumulated songs I wrote this to.

Life always felt calmer in the early morning. A little softer, a little less rough. It always felt like a whole quieter experience, slower, a more innocent thing that seemed to linger even when minutes flew by. He was alone.

Neil lived in a lonely part of this world where nothing ever seemed to shine but the sun on lucky, scarce summer days. It didn’t happen very often. And when it happened, if it happened, Neil slept—because that’s all Neil ever did.

On nights like these, when Neil would come home drunk to the veins, he was deeply sick. It was the alcohol, but everything else all at once—like poison, or cancer, or slowly letting paranoia take control of your brave little mind. But Neil, he had never been brave. He was not paranoid. Not really. What could he fear that hadn’t happened already? His life wasn’t tragic, it was miserable. It encouraged pity and silence, something embarrassing that gave away all the dull sadness of it. This thing that he owned, the only thing, didn’t require to be apologized for; it didn’t require any kind of compensation or payback, much less understanding. It was just _there_.

On nights like these, when Neil would stumble to the shower with half his clothes still on, he’d miss the sea. The sound waves made when they came off and on the shore, rolling and crashing, a steady reassurance that nothing matters but this instant. Neil was not a boy of nature or wilderness. But the sea, for reasons unknown, was somewhere he felt he had been to before, millions of times, and perhaps, for a short moment, he hoped this was where he truly belonged, where he would go back soon.

It was a poetic, yet sad thought to have—the only sea he had now was the scorching water of the shower he was in, clothes clinging to his body like a heavy second skin. He didn’t mind. He’d done it all before, enough to be used to it. Enough to not care anymore.

 

When Jean pushed the bathroom door open, he didn’t dig his heels in.

Depression had hit him with sheer violence; he was barely nineteen. Now it slowly seeped into Jean’s mind whenever he looked at him with those eyes: clouded with secondhand worry and shallow hopelessness, like nothing could be done.

 _Nothing could be done_ , anyway.

“Neil,” he murmured, like all the previous times he’d found him drunk in the shower at four in the morning. And, like all the previous times he was found drunk in the shower at four in the morning, he didn’t respond.

So Jean disappeared, eventually, because he didn’t owe Neil anything, and because he knew tonight was not a night to be useful. Silence, if anything, was the best he could get as an answer and the best he could offer in return. This was their wordless deal, their acceptation of what neither dared voice.

He went back to bed and stared at the venetian blinds, waiting for it to be dawn already, wondering if he’d ever leave this sick kid to his own fate. Searching for a roommate in the classifieds might have been the most dangerous mistake he’d ever done so far. But one had to pay the rent, and he needed Neil to do so, even though he couldn’t tell how such a fucked up, miserable child could even pay the bills. (Most of the time, he’d forget anyway.)

When the sun rises, Neil doesn’t show up. Neither does he when the sun sets again.

Jean went into Neil’s room, a hot cup of green tea in his hand and the same exact one in the other. Weary, cautious. Neither of them liked tea, but he thought water and plants sounded like a healthy combination that couldn’t do them any harm. With all the empty alcohol bottles scattered around the apartment, all the overflowing ashtrays, it really couldn't.

Neil was there, curled up on the naked mattress, a sad yellowing thing randomly placed in the middle of the room that looked like the only thing he had. The bed was wooden, creaky, old enough to have easily been fetched in a dumpster rather than a secondhand furniture store. On the floor, piled up against the patio door with its blinders choking out the light, there was still a bunch of cardboard boxes, intact, left there to rot and collect dust. Since he’d moved in, approximately two months ago, they hadn’t been opened once. They were meant to contain the entirety of Neil’s existence, but every time Jean glanced their way, he noticed there wasn’t much to be contained.

He put the steaming cup on the floor for lack of any nightstand, for lack of any furniture at all, really—and stood there for a moment, pondering whether or not he should wake him up. But Neil was sleeping tight and he looked like a whole different thing now: softer by the sleepy features of his face, impartial, and way more peaceful than he would ever be with his eyes open. Jean felt sick a for a split second, chest tight from all the pathetic details of Neil Josten’s somber existence. The drugs, the cardboard boxes, the mattress—the turmoil. This was the only moment Neil Josten didn’t look unequivocally helpless, and it was almost overwhelming.

The room reeked of fetid air and remnants of vomit radiating through the open door to the toilet he had thrown up in hours ago. Jean flushed the toilet to chase the lumpy liquid away, although Neil drank more than he ate, and looked back to check if he should cover his bony body—but he knew, he knew Neil was already sweating too much—and left.

 

It’s one in the morning when Neil finally opens his eyes. The patio door was pushed open to let the chill night breeze in, but there was no hint of light through the thin cream-colored curtains. There was a cup of tea on the floor, though, and it was cold, and Neil hated tea anyway.

All shutters were drawn shut in the living room, and though the TV was on there was no sound but the show host’s voice and the light rhythm of Jean’s breathing in the background. He was sprawled on the couch, in the exhausted way he so often was, and Neil stepped closer to check if he was asleep, peeping above the couch like a fearful child—but where he expected to find purple eyelids tightly shut, two grey eyes steadily stared back at him.

An awkward silence followed and, eventually, Neil guiltily looked at his own feet, because he knew a little too well the cup of tea was Jean’s work. It was cold enough now that it’d been there for hours. Tonight was not a night where Neil was going to be drunk, but they both knew the next one surely would. He didn't have to speak. He didn't have to admit his fault, phrase his vice into words; Jean already knew. He knew too well.

So Jean looked away and back at the TV, and Neil sat on the other end of the couch, where Jean’s feet left a tiny space that was far enough for Neil’s tiny, bony frame. He was almost as tall as Jean was, but he held himself hunched and wary, always trying to make himself look smaller than he really was, shrinking like a wilting flower.

Neil gave a look and Jean gave it back—it held a quiet thank you nobody voiced.

Two nights a week, Jean would work at the gas station downtown. He was up at the counter and took care of the rare customers he had, whether it was in the shop or looking for a fill tank, sometimes both. Two other nights, Jean worked as a barman in a local pub, where he helped old men get drunk a glass after another, and every time he looked at the empty bottles aligned on the counter, he would wonder if Neil bought his poison in a gas station or in a gloomy pub like this.

Either way, he also wondered when would Neil finally barge in, faltering and blabbering, asking for alcohol, Jean’s eyes strangers to him through the thick and unsettling haze of drunkenness.

 

One night, Jean awoke to the noise in the bathroom—first, clumsy feet that seemed to bump into everything, and a plethora of things falling, followed by others; then it was the energetic flow of water splashing down the shower, and the culprit of it all stumbling his way to it.

He sat upright in his bed, hands resting in between his legs, all lazily spread apart on the warm mattress. This had happened many times before, and never ended in any other way than Neil blindly pursuing his drunken activities like Jean didn’t exist anyways. Yet, he couldn’t help it, that quick, almost fatherly wave of worry rushing in—if he couldn’t make him sober and neither could the water, then he could at least appreciate how bad it was, tip toe his way around the disaster that was Neil to assess damage. It would only take short glance to know: he’d seen Neil drunk too many nights not to master the art of it.

This time, though, when he pushed the door open to lean in the doorframe with a shadowy frown upon his face, Neil’s back turned around—in a wet dark green t-shirt, in black boxers, in worn out dirty white socks. The look on Neil’s face was so ugly Jean felt thankful for all the times he hadn’t met it.

Neil’s eyes were bloodshot and wet, but he couldn’t tell if it was the water or if he’d been crying all along, red hair pulled back in chaotic directions. His brows were twisted in a curious manner, and it was almost unsettling to feel his gaze on him as he desperately held onto the shower door to keep standing. Neil's reaction, Jean wasn’t certain, was a mixture of all things Neil had ever felt. Too much to name any of it, too brunt and raw to look at it without flinching a little.

For a brief second, being reminded of the banal, normal person Neil had been when he’d moved in months ago, Jean felt horror wrap its tender arms around him. Had he done that to him? Was that the consequence of staying too close, like being exposed to a disease that had no cure? Was Jean's misery contagious, or had Neil been sick all along?

He looked closer, and it was almost too much to take. Neil’s face darkened by the embarrassment of being caught red-handed; clouded by the anger of being disturbed in a superficially intimate task Jean fully knew was merely a desperate attempt from his subconscious to drift back to soberness; softened by the relief of not being alone anymore; and, strangely, twisted by the striking realization that something was deeply wrong. Deeply, _deeply_  wrong.

Neil’s lips parted as though to leave a message, but no sound came out of it, and Jean waited with expectant dread. It took a moment for Neil to frown, then firmly so, and how awful it was to look at his face when he twisted it in a final breath that was crying out for help—after that, it burst out with violence, a hopeless cry that lingered down his throat before echoing against the tiles and back to him.

 _Oh, Neil,_ Jean thought as his own features unintentionally mimicked the horrific sight. _Who did that to you?_

This was not a question to ask, perhaps because he feared that the answer would lead to himself.

Jean had never wanted to be responsible for Neil Josten, but he much less desired to be the cause of his downfall.

Neil stayed there, wild and obedient and the same time, as if both daring and asking Jean to come closer. Everything on his face was distress, was fear, screaming for help; but he wasn’t sure what there was left to save. Neil stood there like a dangerous child, attentive and wary, water running down his clothed back and down his legs, his sobs gradually drowned in—the ugliest he’s ever looked.

Jean realized it was the first time he’d ever caught him crying. He’d never doubted it, that Neil was a crier: he was too sensitive, too alive to take it, but he’d never actually seen him do so before now. He’d never doubted, either, that Neil was an angry crier, although right now he wasn’t sure whether that was anger or raw desperation fixed upon his broken face.

“This has got to stop,” Jean choked out, voice tighter than usual, wavering and tense and urging to help, making Neil tilt his head to the side with irrepressible shame. It was stern and cold, but it was distinctly involved, like only Jean could put this to an end. Like only Jean could truly understand, naïve witness of Neil's slow decay.

Jean was sick. Sick of Neil getting drunk, of Neil getting high, of Neil wrecking his world too loudly for it to go unnoticed. He wanted Neil to wreck himself in silence, where Jean would never have to see, would never even worry. He wanted peace of mind. More than once he had wondered what his life would look like if Neil hadn't moved in with him. More than once he had concluded that he would have fared better, but presumed Neil would have ended up alone in back alley, sniffing drugs up his nostrils to feel a little something while the whole world kept turning and turning.

Neil reacted to it, though it was brief and blurry and left as soon as it came. Maybe it was a thank you, maybe it was a fuck you. Either way Jean looked down, floor cold and Neil’s worn out jeans at his feet—and left again.

Later in his bed, Jean noticed silence had returned. Calm, and quiet, almost another dimension where none of his had ever happened, and it left him shivering despite the summer heat. He didn’t want to help, he didn’t owe him anything—is what he constantly reminded himself. This fucker had searched for trouble himself, and he’d unsurprisingly gotten it. How couldn’t it be fair? How couldn’t it be deserved and merited? Why should anyone bother to step in for someone who so fiercely chased after agony, who so fiercely self-destructed one night at a time?

But a hint of selfishness and a tired bit of anxiety always made him wonder.

How long till he’d get both of them killed? How long till real problems would begin?

And problems—they had too many. He was sick of mopping the floor after Neil drunkenly throwing up, sick of leaving the door unlocked for him to come home in the middle of the night, sick of waking to the sound of showers as a dull reminder that Neil was simply incapable of putting himself out of misery, constantly drifting back to it over and over and over again.

Oh, he wasn’t mature enough, and Jean wasn’t selfless enough. But then again, it always came back to him as an afterthought, distant and hypothetical—it was his home, too, and if he couldn’t kick Neil out legally, he had to find a way to make things simpler.

Rules, Neil did not care for them. Respect, he barely had any. It was time for him to learn both. Not that the plan seemed of any easiness.

 

One night, when Neil hadn’t yet recovered from his binge-drinking in local, shabby bars, Jean barged into his room and threw the sheets around, leaving Neil’s half-naked body uncovered and shivering. The strange and unusual sight made him uneasy for a second, and he tried not to linger where Eren’s sleepy hand was resting near his crotch—instead lifting his eyes back up to the boy’s face, only to find two red, shiny eyeballs that reminded him of despair.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and there was more tension and uncertainty in his voice than there should have been.

The thought of Neil fearing danger in his own place made him shudder, but he didn’t reassure for all that, shrugging the words off with an unsympathetic wince.

“Waking you up,” is the simplest answer he could give at this hour. He hadn’t slept yet, and Neil hadn’t slept enough for it to wash away the fatigue, but there was no better time to do it. It was now or never. “Pack your things or I’m leaving without you.”

He threw Neil’s green duffel bag and watched it land on his stomach. Neil sat upright at the motion, and when his face met the ray of light projected from the corridor, it became clear he had been crying.

For a short moment, Neil considered not going—wherever it was that Jean wanted to go. But one thought after another, it appeared to him, awfully fast, that he wouldn’t be able to survive much longer without Jean to watch over him.

It was Jean who did the cooking, or rather, ordered it—Jean who cleaned the clothes no matter how fiercely he hated the task—Jean who made sure Neil wouldn’t die as soon as he passed the door: what happened outside, he’d always say, was not his problem.

It was Jean, it had been Jean all along, who’d put Neil to his side to be certain he wouldn’t choke in his own vomit as he fell asleep on the kitchen floor, and it was definitely Jean who’d picked Neil up from shady places after a desperate phone call he could have just ignored.

He wasn’t feeling sorry for being such a burden, such a bad roommate, and a shitty human being in general, although Jean made a good rival in the latter here and there—but he had to admit staying alone here, with the certainty he’d sneak outside to get whiskey, molly, and all the other things his mother had once warned him about, was clearly suicide. There would one night too many, one he would not wake up from.

Perhaps this is why he threw his legs off the bed and stared as Jean left the room. Jean was fully clothed, and he looked ready to leave—Neil didn’t doubt he would leave him here if he didn’t hurry enough. So Neil grabbed his bag and looked around, because there wasn’t much he could possibly bring with. Most of his clothes were dirty, and there was no use trying to wear any soon; he didn’t own a laptop, or fancy shoes; always brushed his teeth with his trembling index and a little bit of Jean's toothpaste; never used anything other than Jean’s shampoo in the shower. Clearly, this bag wasn’t going to be heavy.

It was all his life had to bring, and he realized there wasn’t much at all.

He picked another pair of worn out black jeans, mismatched socks he wasn’t sure were clean, a book or two, his old and crappy mp3 player with songs he didn’t even enjoy on, his cellphone charger, a few t-shirts, flannels and a sweatshirt he always seemed to end up wearing no matter what—and it did the trick.

To that, on top of the bag, he added a thick stack of cash he’d use to pay the rent, because he wasn’t sure if they’d ever be coming back. The only thing he _was_  sure of is that he wasn’t staying here alone, not if Jean was going.

Being dependent on Jean didn’t bug him, he’d been through worse states; in fact, it sort of reassured him into a safe bubble he knew only Jean was capable of popping open. He knew he should tell Dan, and Matt, and Seth, too; but it could wait, and there was nothing and no one else to keep him around. Nobody needed him. Not even himself.

 

Ten minutes later, when he ran to the living room and it was clear Jean was already gone, Neil rushed out of the house to check if the car was still there. He found Jean’s rusty dark blue truck there, a mediocre secondhand phenomenon he’d barely been able to afford. It was Jean’s, and the only thing they had, so he locked the front door with a shaky hand and hopped into the car with his large and ridiculously empty duffel bag.

A similar one rested on the backseat, deeper than it was wide, and with a glance Neil wondered what Jean had chosen to bring. What would someone like Jean need? Oh, he had no idea. He hadn't put much thought into Jean before, and hadn't ventured as far as Jean's bedroom ever. Jean had never struck him as the type to go anywhere. And for some reason, he liked the idea of being proved wrong.

“Are we ready?” Jean asked, but it was a cold question and Neil felt there was a second meaning to it that he could not quite grasp. Something told him they were not. _He_  was not.

“Where are we going?” Neil slurred back, although right now, it was the least of his problems.

Soon enough, he was going to run out of drugs, and alcohol, and cash—and it was obvious he might not find what he needed where they were heading. For some obscure reason, still, he chose to ignore the unpleasant tingling in his stomach and looked outside the window, where the dark skies of a summer night gave a reassuring shade of blue he’d seen so many times before.

Jean turned the engine on and gave Even a sharp look in the rearview mirror, too annoyed, then to look at him in the eyes. It was going to take a good hundred miles to get over the irritation and Neil knew that.

“There’s a place where I need to be.”

Neil lingered on Jean’s bare arms, tensing with every move as he drove out of the alleyway, then reached for the mp3 player in the backseat. There was no sign of disapproval when he put one earphone in, so he put the other in too, and slipped his sweatshirt between his head and the window as he closed his eyes.

It didn’t take long for Jean to understand he was alone now. Neil’s mind had gone with Neil’s body, far, far away, someplace where there were no such things as drugs or self-destruction or loneliness and guilt. What he was dreaming of, Jean couldn’t tell, but he’d always prefer the sleeping version of the boy, for it gave the illusion of him being whole. Untouched, intact, still perfectly functioning. Unbroken.

That was an ugly lie, because he’d never been something less unbroken than Neil Josten.

Not functional, dysfunctional, call it what you want—Jean called it ‘fucked up’ and it seemed to fit.

He’d been driving for three hours when he finally reached the best part of any road trip, the part where everything starts to look estranged and unknown, where every mile is a step closer to a place you’ve never been before. He’d already been to the destination, of course—but he’d never gone from where he had left, and with Neil asleep in the passenger seat, he sure was leaving from a faraway place.

At this point, the road had become an endless line of grey asphalt and steady-paced cars, some, braver, daring to take over, and what was left was an infinite horizon of green trees and cheap gas stations. It wasn’t poetic, but it was freeing, like starting over, like daring yourself not to look behind and keep going.

When he stopped at a shop’s tiny parking lot, right after getting a full tank, the sound of the engine turned off again was enough to wake Neil up. Slowly, yes; but for some reason Jean waited for him, fingers of his right hand still casually wrapped around the bottom of the steering wheel. He didn't look like he was going anywhere, yet Jean didn't look like someone who would wait for anyone either.

Emerging, Neil thought of asking where they were but figured too many questions would piss Jean off, which, usually, didn’t seem to be something he’d fear. As long as he was a passenger, however, he couldn’t risk his free ticket to whatever nirvana Jean had subtly promised. It was something to be expired awfully fast. He'd have to tip toe his way around Jean's temper, he'd have to bend, to wait, to obey—all kinds of things Neil profoundly loathed.

“Do you want something?” Jean forced out of himself when Neil looked awake enough. He considered himself lucky: in such a mood, his well-being would normally be something Jean didn’t give two damns about. Neil didn’t mind: he didn’t want softness, he wanted attention. In the rawest form. Any form that might make him feel something, at least.

“Can I come along?” he answered instead, and it seemed apparent it wasn't an option Jean had ever considered.

There was an idle glance towards Neil’s lap. His eyes were still red, but he wasn’t shaking anymore—sleep, most likely, had done the trick to delay the inevitable. Jean looked at the vitrine with a sigh, then shrugged—and he’d always done a pretty good job at looking indifferent. In his opinion, distance was the best suited synonym for safety.

Neil didn’t bother thanking him—hell, Jean wasn’t his mother—and they both entered the shop at different paces, with different attitudes, and for different reasons.

Jean was quick and efficient, silent in the alleys, like a long-time parent or a businessman stuck in a routine, and went for caffeine and an arrangement of very practical things—batteries, bottles of water, tissues, a set of lighters, a pack of cigarettes and a local map for emergencies.

Neil, conversely, dragged his feet behind like a burden, passing the doors with his hands deep in his sweatshirt’s front pocket and walking straight to the food section, where he grabbed a fair amount of sugary drinks to keep him running, which Jean didn’t mind as long as he didn’t have to pay.  _Hell, Jean wasn't his mother._

By the time Neil came out of the shop, plastic bag hanging from his dangerously open fist, Jean was smoking against the dirty wall, lulled by the sound of cars driving past full speed on the highway next to them. Neil stood there for a moment, unsure as to what to do—the two of them, after all, had never shared anything that didn’t involve Neil being wasted out of his mind or painfully hungover. Now that it was almost daylight, and that Neil had sobered up, how he was supposed to act seemed unclear. From now they were on foreign grounds in every way.

Jean, on the other hand, pretended not to feel the presence, and Neil realized as he stared that he’d never seen Jean smoke before. If he was curious of the discovery he didn’t show it, however, and went back into the car with his door left wide open. Of course he'd stumbled upon the ashtrays one time too many, but he'd never spent enough time with Jean to actually witness the act. It felt strange, a little too intimate, like something he wasn't supposed to be seeing.

This silence could have been uncomfortable for different people, but it was Neil, and it was Jean, and they were used to it by now. Talking, neither of them were actually good at it, and they’d discovered a long time ago they had nothing in common but the place where they lived.

A place, truly, where they never stayed in the same room for too long. Ghosts of their own, never bumping into each other, going their own ways—or, rather, not going anywhere at all.

Through the small space between the windshield and the open passenger door, Neil allowed himself to peep at Jean. He was close enough to catch a conversational tone, but he wasn’t going to speak first, because he had his pride, too. Besides, what could he possibly say? No matter how many words there were in their language, there seemed to be none reserved for them. None that would fit. None that would matter.

When Jean looked up, face eternally tense, they both held each other’s gaze for a moment and simultaneously looked away. The disinterest felt mutual, but the questions in Neil’s mouth were only burning his lips, and soon enough, he’d have to ask them. Because that’s what Neil always did. Intrude, invade, steal and spoil.

Jean eventually went back in and they both closed their doors. The quietness was immediate and, after a while, Jean went through his own plastic bag. Among the rest, there was a bunch of packed sandwiches and a small bag of vinegar chips. Oh so slowly, like it could be a mistake to regret if he wasn’t careful enough, Jean threw a sandwich in Neil’s lap, both pairs of eyes staring at it until Neil decidedly shook his head.

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.” They both knew he was, but Neil rarely ate anything at all; added to that the shame of being paid food because the only dollars he’d brought into the shop hadn’t been enough for something solid. He didn't need to voice he kept most of it for drugs—Jean already knew. “Really,” he insisted, but Jean turned his head away like the conversation had never really started.

“I’m going to rest for a bit.” There was a pause, like he was wondering whether he should tell him not to get too far, but he knew full well Neil wouldn’t leave the car without him either. “Wake me up at eight.”

It was only an hour and a half worth of sleep, but Jean didn’t mind—he’d mastered the art of napping since his infamous high school years. Neil nodded, too tired to rebel.

Ten minutes later, when Jean started to feel himself drift to sleep, he caught the sound of Neil opening the plastic wrapping of the sandwich in his lap; it was a pathetic thing, to wait for Jean to be asleep to eat what he had earlier denied, but it was okay, because, at least, today wasn’t going to be the day when Neil would die starving.

If he had to be responsible for this kid’s death, then it better be because he’d murdered him himself. Which, he thought as he dozed off, had never been more likely to happen.

 

Jean woke up a little past eight, despite Neil’s desperate attempts at doing so earlier. Truth was Jean had always been a sleeper, safe and sound in the familiar warmth of his dreams, and the only thing that appeared to wake him up these days were the sounds Neil made whenever he came home drunk. Broken glass, stumbling feet, body crashing against walls, steamy water running down the shower and Neil getting angry at the furniture for no other reason than existing.

It was a minuscule and stupid reason, but it seemed enough to him. Many times before, Jean had felt like wrecking Neil, too, simply because he existed. The boy had never quite grasped the worth of one’s life, and if he wanted to go away, then he should do so quietly and not wake Jean up in the process. Jean wasn't interested in partaking Neil's self-destruction. It wasn't righteous or selfless of him—he simply wanted to be left alone.

“I thought I’d lost you for a moment,” Neil’s shaky laugh came from the passenger seat. It was easy to tell Neil was tired and uneasy, like a stranger in a late party full of unknown faces. This was something he’d lived before, but it never struck him as the type of things Neil would get uneasy from, and it took him a moment to register the hidden worry in his tone.

Neil had no driving license, much less drove at all. There were no bus stops around here and people driving by certainly wouldn’t stop to pick Neil up: he was starting to understand that Jean was his only option, no matter where he’d go.

He offered a chocolate bar and, once again, it took Jean a moment to understand Neil had gone back into the shop and bought him food. Not for himself, but for Jean. It didn’t suit Neil too much, this caring role—he barely had enough sense to take care of his own self—but, strangely, and maybe it was the rarity of the sight, it made Jean’s cheeks warm up a bit.

Jean straightened up and accepted the offer in silence, although he wasn’t sure he’d eat it at all. It felt precious, like that kind of present you’d never want to break or give away, much less part from, something utterly useless but profoundly linked to you. Something sentimental. It was the contrary, with Neil: he had no emotional link with things, and distanced himself from everything and anything. In the end, when he’d had to pack up his things in a rush, there hadn’t been much dilemma. Jean would have envied him the anti-materialism if it wasn’t directly the cause of Neil’s instability—of Neil’s solitude.

“I made myself hard to kill,” Jean murmured with a husky voice that came out of his sleep. He rubbed his eyes under Neil’s attentive gaze, like a proud child looking up to his father, and he felt uneasy, too. “We should head there before the sun sets.”

It was a ridiculous statement, because the sun had barely even risen, but Jean knew exactly why. _This_  was a place to arrive to before sunset, a place to settle down in the chill evening air of freedom. Something tickled his neck and he felt like telling Neil where they were going, his eyes just asking for it—but he didn’t: Neil didn’t deserve to know just yet. He deserved to be kept aside until they parked there. The contrary would be like telling Neil a secret he wasn’t ready to keep to himself. In fact, Jean realized, it was a secret he had never told anyone.

“Chill out, it’s like, eight. I mean it’s not like time's running out.”

It was true—they had all eternity anyways. But Jean didn't care. Or perhaps he didn't want to spend too much time in this car with Neil on his passenger seat. It'd been some time since Neil had last messed up, and he knew it'd soon happen.

Neil looked otherworldly, like the Neil Jean knew had been replaced by another, calmer and happier, while he’d been sleeping. Neil gave half a smile—wanting to, but still testing the temperature to make sure it was okay. Smiling to Jean felt like a dangerous thing to do when he didn’t do it on the sheer purpose of pissing Jean off—a dangerous thing to do at all. It was strange, and unknown, and terrible.

For a second Jean felt like snapping back he was the only one to know where the road was leading them, and that, for this very reason, Neil couldn’t estimate the amount of time left to drive. But he didn’t, because he knew doing so was like inviting questions he specifically didn’t want Neil to ask. If anything he wanted Neil to be quiet—it was much less scary when he didn’t seem mature and completely composed, when he didn't seem incredibly foreign.

Jean went to the restroom and to the empty aisles, dropping by the counter with two fresh bottles of soda because the ones they’d bought were most likely warm by now. He glanced to the side of the cashier register and picked up gum, for obscure reasons he didn’t want to think about. The thought kept going when the cashier held a plastic bag up to his face, but he discarded it as well as he could manage.

“Want a bag? It’s the only ones we have left, they’re thicker and more expensive but I can sell you this for the same price.”

He was right: it was visibly thicker, but he didn’t need a bag for two bottles. “No, thank you.” The cashier pushed the bottles closer to Jean and he gave it a second thought. “Actually, yes.”

The man looked up in surprise but didn’t comment and crouched to pick up the bag he’d just put away. Jean didn’t really give a shit about the bag, but he knew it was going to come in handy if Neil felt like throwing up. He didn’t know much about drugs or alcohol, much less any kind of addiction linked to either, but it was clear that, at some point, Neil would feel like giving away his insides.

And he was right. Around one in the afternoon, Neil got violently sick. His body was starting to lack everything and anything—drugs, sleep, nutriments and other things Neil neglected on a daily basis—and they had to stop on the side of the road for Neil to dry-heave into the weeds. What he did release, Jean didn’t quite want to know; it seemed to him that it wasn’t only about throwing up, and soon enough Neil disappeared into the wild.

Jean waited in the car for twenty minutes, and when Neil finally reappeared, pale and shaky despite his tan skin and his confident posture, he crouched beside the truck for another ten minutes, motionless. From time to time, Jean would give a glance his way—but the silhouette was still unmoving on the concrete, as still as a sleeping spider. And from there, it did look like he was asleep. Or dead, perhaps.

They didn’t talk when he sat back into the passenger seat. He closed the door, Jean closed his as he'd left it open for fresh air in the meantime, and they headed to the next station because it was obvious they weren’t done with Neil’s sickness.

 

Sitting on a rather repulsive toilet in the back of a gas station, Neil put his head into hands and questioned everything. His boxers were pulled down to his ankles and he’d been waiting patiently, trying to evacuate what he wanted to be evacuated in every possible way. Sometimes, he’d get up and throw up bitter bile down the toilet and, the minute after, sit back and try to shit the sickness out of him. It was a nasty term, but it stuck pretty well to his reality. Unfortunately, it never worked like that.

Neil felt like cleansing his body from the inside, and to do so, he needed to get rid of everything he’d ever put inside his body. There were three things that he knew were giving him a tough time right now—and it wasn’t just the drugs his body was going to realize were missing, but also the rough and painful anal sex he’d been into these days, and his tendency to get sick in any vehicle when the drive went on for an extended period of time. He coughed, vomited, sat still and shook a bit, lacking forces, lacking pretty much everything—then coughed some more. Oh, he did lack everything. Company, even, he dared to think—but he didn’t really want to admit being alone was a problem.

In fact, when he came out of the restroom, walking slow and wary like he’d feel the need to go back there any second, and found Jean surprising focused as he checked the food department, he didn’t thank him for taking him away from home, or for bearing with him, or just merely being there.

Because, it’s true, it was only Jean.

And he was only Neil.

 

Dan was growing terribly annoyed at his attitude, and he could get it, and although he knew she would do anything for him, he knew he needed the rough way to get back on his feet. Which, actually, he didn’t want. And Jean knew that too.

So Neil knew it was safe, for today at least—that maybe tomorrow would be harder, but, for today, he could be anything; pathetic, childish, a good for nothing and it was, in retrospection, pretty much everything he had ever been. It was sad and it was true. Lately, Neil hadn’t been doing a good job at being a decent human being worthy of time, affection and worry. Of just _anything_  really.

No, Neil just walked out of the shop and stopped on the rocky pavement to breathe in and out, and tried to pretend nothing was painfully pounding inside his head. His whole body was a wreck now, almost as much as he was, and it was an unpleasant preview of what was about to follow then. His digestive system was going to rebel itself for all the things he had done, and his body was going to fight to eliminate bad toxins and the rest of the shit he’d let inside day after day. Already he couldn’t sleep and his right hand was shaking pretty bad, organism missing its dose—missing the relief and missing the numbness.

It wasn’t talked about when Jean went back into the car. They stayed parked there for a moment like Neil would need the toilets again, and when it was clear nobody was going to move, Jean turned the engine on and drove off.

They stopped twice after that. Once for Neil’s stomach, and Jean took the advantage of the unprompted break to empty his bladder behind a tree—another time for Neil’s stomach again, turning the other way around, bucking the flow.

“I feel so sick,” Neil murmured when they were in the car again, but both had left their doors open. Jean was half-seated, smoking a cigarette Neil would rather not smell.

For a vague moment, it was unclear what Neil was talking about. There were plenty things he should have been sick of. He had all reasons to be.

Jean decided it was Neil’s addiction kicking in, and the way he was feeling bad only when he wasn’t fucking his health up, and chose to stare at the ground as he pondered for an answer. A lame one, like a half-interested parent, or a friend who doesn’t really care more than that. One that’s heard it all before, one time too many. It’s all he could do for now. “I know.”

And that was it. Neil frowned, searched for his eyes, sort of mad that he wouldn’t even get the nice words he needed to hear now, ones he’d hardly ever heard from anyone—but he knew Jean didn’t owe him anything, and when he did look up, he found Neil’s eyes wet and unsure.

There was silence. Awkward, anxious silence, like Neil was going to burst into tears any moment now.

He didn’t. Turned his head away instead, and then everything turned back into normal.

For the rest of the trip, as the sun started to lower and Jean’s attention diminish, he noticed Neil’s head turned to the window for a long time. He tried to catch a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror to check if he was sleeping, but the sunrays hit back into it and blinded him instantly. For everyone’s sake, he assumed Neil was only sleeping; because that was the best thing he could do right now, and it was by far a better idea than getting sick every ten miles.

Surely, it wasn’t Neil’s fault. But it was, too. It was the case with everything: it wasn’t Neil’s fault, but it kind of was, too. That’s where the problem lied.

 

Neil’s hands were weakly holding onto his stomach, and even with the radio on low and the wind going through the half-rolled down windows, it was easy to hear the wreck it was doing. There was probably gas inside, or acid, or something very strong and unpleasant that was turning his insides upside down and vividly kicking in. As a kid, Jean used to think it was that, having a baby; a thing in your stomach going around and kicking you. It was one of those things he’d ignored until atrociously late, and on days like these, he wished he could get back to that kind of soothing and naïve ignorance.

A part of him wanted to say: _hold on, we’re almost there_ , but he stayed mute for a while.

And when, finally, he decided to speak up, probably because Neil was on the verge of tears, something deep inside his throat stirring ugly sounds that didn’t bode well, Jean made sure he didn’t meet his eyes in the mirror.

“It’s calm.” He felt Neil look up, although his intricate position didn’t change, and then the urge to explain. “Where I’m taking you. It’s calm.”

“T'was calm there, too,” Neil snapped back instead—with a weak voice, nonetheless, one that didn’t sound anything like Neil’s electric attitude. Unexpectedly, he went on. “Taking me…”

Jean broke his inner promise and ever so quickly turned to him, fingers gripping the steering wheel like he was holding on for dear life. Neil’s eyes were intrigued, but not any more than they were confused.

“What?”

“You said you’re  _taking me_.”

There was a pause, during which Jean realized Neil was a good listener, even in such a state—more than he’d ever let on. Perhaps was silence the best decision, because it didn’t seem like many words were needed to fuck the conversation up. It wasn’t quite that Jean was angry, or embarrassed, or irritated—he just never expected Neil to tell him that, and he wasn’t sure how to answer, or if there was ever an answer to it.

Yes, he was taking Neil there, so what?

“I also have to be there. I told you.” With a shrug, he added: “two birds, one stone, I suppose.”

He knew where Neil wanted to lead him but it stopped there, because it brought them back to the knowledge that Neil was incapable of surviving alone, not even in their own house, not even for a weekend. Neil was a kid, because he’d never thought about the consequences if they ever had to get away, far, far away from his drugs and questionable frequentations, from his dangerous comfort zone and lethal coping mechanisms.

He wasn’t sure why he had come along, suddenly.

“OK,” he just said, and rested his head back where it had been the whole time.

The next time Neil’s head moved, they were slowly entering the gravy alleyway that led to a white, wooden house Jean was probably supposed to take care of. For a short but vivid second, Neil strongly hoped the house was empty: it wasn’t quite the right moment to meet new people, much less if they were related to Jean in any way.

Jean himself had required a long time to take in, to bear, to tolerate. They hated each other actively, but they knew how to stay silent in times of need, and he knew he didn’t have it in him to tolerate anyone else. Certainly not another Moreau.

“What’s that?” he asked as Jean turned the engine off. He expected him to leave him in the car without an answer but, instead, Jean stilled in his seat and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“A house.” There was amusement in his tone, like he was trying to be sarcastic on purpose—and it calmed Neil down a little. At least, Jean wasn’t bitter, and that was probably the best thing that could happen, because when Jean was bitter, Neil had to be even more so to compensate. For moral reasons. Or pride—whatever worked best.

Neil knew it was a house, though. It had its grey, wooden shutters still closed like the house was abandoned; and the white paint was coming off here and there, which somehow gave it a soothing look. The sun was setting behind it, and it broke through a sort of porch-terrace that went all around the house, wrapped with a straight white railing and tiny stairs of the same color. Everything was white, everything was wood. Everything was strangely good. This, perhaps, had to be the most beautiful thing Neil Josten had ever seen—far, far, from the dark and depressing apartment complexes and skyscrapers from the city. Far from their lonely one-floor house where nobody ever seemed to breathe.

It was good in a way that made Neil’s shoulders relax and the corners of Jean’s mouth twitch a bit.

“It’s mine… Sort of. It belonged to an uncle who died quite recently,” he started, and when he saw Neil’s darkened face at the mention, he oddly softened. “Nah, don’t freak out. He was a cunt and nobody liked him. And no, he didn’t die inside the house.” He almost told him he didn’t want his grief bullshit, but Neil didn’t seem like the type of guy who would think of apologizing for somebody else’s death, someone he didn’t even know existed. Neil wouldn't give him any pity and he felt grateful for it. For once, Neil's childish temper would come in handy.

Neil shot him an angry glance, because rumor had it Neil believed in the paranormal. In ghosts, in spirits, in whatever lingered long after a body disappeared. A part of him did, and he didn’t like to be teased about it for the simple reason that mentioning these things aloud would make him shiver every time. It was serious, like someone afraid of heights or spiders or clowns, and he didn’t enjoy the idea of Jean making fun of him for that.

“Fact is we’re supposed to take care of it or it’s going to crumble. This house isn’t eternal and god knows it’s been there for a while now, and shit is not going to fix itself. I need to clean, and, you know, bring some life back into it. I have spare keys,” he then said as he held the keys up.

Indeed, he had the keys.

Then it struck Neil.

Jean had taken him to a quiet, soothing place. He’d said it himself, hadn’t he?

A rush of surprise came through him—a confusing surprise, like a mixture of different emotions that had nothing to do with each other. He did hate Jean, so fucking much—but, at the same time, Jean had been the only one to ever care enough to do such a thing.

And maybe it was self-interested, maybe he hadn’t done anything out of charity, maybe, in fact, Neil’s addictions were irritating more than they were worrying to him, but it didn’t change the fact that they were both here, and that he was, as a matter of fact, far from his drugs.

“Thank you,” he just said, and suddenly he was so exhausted. He shouldn't have felt thankful for being deprived of his drugs, of the only things he truly liked still, but he did. Maybe it was the scent in the air, something forlorn like a childhood souvenir.

Jean turned to him, and they both hesitated. “Don’t ‘thank you’ me, Neil.”

And then—he left.

And then—Neil joined in without caring about his bag still sprawled on the backseat around tons of plastic bags. He just walked up to Jean and stood by his side under the porch, unsure where he was, unsure where he belonged.

And then—Neil saw it. The sea. All over. Everywhere before his eyes, extending on the horizon like a blue sky on a cloudless day. It was everywhere, and it was there, and he’d never been so close to the sea.

Jean had already given half of it away, so there was no point in acting cold and indifferent anymore. In a sigh, he said, with the nonchalant shrug that looked exactly like Neil’s, “you need the sea.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr is @wndg (aftg sideblog is @exybitch)  
> i haven't read over it since i've written it months ago so it's probably terrible and full of typos, will edit later sorry

They discovered it soon enough: everything in the house was white and sandy. Nothing had been covered despite the evident absence of its dead owner, and on everything there was to be touched was a thin layer of dust.

Neil immediately went upstairs to check the bedrooms. There was one, wide and clear, full of framed family pictures on each wall, with striped blue and white sheets, and Neil figured it was going to be Jean’s. He felt like an intruder in an overly private space and walked out before Jean could catch him.

Then he found the spare room on the opposite side of the corridor, two doors facing one another with barely two meters in between. Tentatively, like any kid in a stranger’s house visiting for the first time, Neil pushed the door open and, bag still on the shoulder, and stilled in the doorframe. It was a bit tinier but just as nice—grainy grey sheets and white borders, white furniture, and a nightstand lamp that was obviously homemade with shells which, no doubt, had been found on the beach two feet away from the house. The beach was like the house’s garden, when he thought about it, and it was more beautiful than Neil had ever hoped it to be. 

He and Matt had always wanted to drive to the sea. They lived in a plain town, with dust-colored buildings and an average of two-story houses, with metallic, rusty fences and dried up front-yards, with dirty pickups and busy streets. Everything here felt like a different world. The streets were wider but empty, everything was clearer—painted white or cream or pastel—and people walked on the beach hand in hand. 

There was a closet on the left side of the bed, but Neil just put his duffel bag on the wooden chair in the corner, and sat on the edge of the bed. At the same time, Jean appeared in the corridor, unable to go to his room without being seen. It took him some time to notice, and Neil watched him put his stuff on his own bed, unaware of being watched, and it was like observing a strange breed of wild birds in the  middle of nature. Neil felt like a wild photographer, tried to remember the way Jean’s attitude was softer when he was alone, because he was almost sure he’d never be able to catch him like that a second time. It was rare, it was to be cherished as a souvenir. 

When Jean finally felt the weight of his stare and looked up, he straightened instantly and tensed again. Just like that, the illusion was gone.

“You found your room,” he simply said. That was ridiculous, but Neil would take anything.

“Yeah. Figured this one was… too personal. I don’t like to sleep in dead people’s beds anyways.”

A silence followed, and both wondered if they had anything else to say. It was a strange thing, to voluntarily talk with someone you didn’t like, even more when you were someone who didn’t talk a lot at all—but after the entire day spent in a tiny car together, it felt like nothing much.

“Hungry?” Jean asked. Of course he was going to be the cook here, but there was most likely nothing in the cupboards, and nothing in the fridge. It left Neil wondering if they were going out to some place. He strongly hoped not.

“I mean,” Neil said, and used the time to he’d granted himself to think about it. He scratched the back of his neck in a nervous manner, one that hardly suited him. “I’m not really sure. Probably not. Can’t really tell, I still have remnants of vomit in my throat.” 

He grinned a little at that, and checked Jean’s reaction which was, as he’d expected, fairly disgusted. The effect was efficient, and although Neil wasn’t lying, the phrasing was enough to make Jean chuckle for a second. Then he went for the door and kicked it closed, leaving him all alone. Through it, Neil was still able to decipher the words: shut up.

These were words they would say a lot, but tonight, for the first time perhaps, it didn’t feel as aggressive—and Neil sat still on the edge of his bed a little longer. He was smiling, in a tired, reassured way. 

His first thought was then: white sheets were a bad idea.

And, effectively, it was.

As per say, Neil didn’t quite throw up on the sheets—he’d had enough time to rush through the corridor and stumble in what he had miraculously assumed was the bathroom, and down to the white and shiny toilets that didn’t seem to bear the brunt of time. It was a weird thought, how it was one of the only things to be intact.

The sound of it was enough to bring Jean’s attention. The sun had barely gone down and neither of them knew what they were going to do in order to eat yet, because Jean wasn’t overflowing with money and Neil would never pay themselves a restaurant when he stubbornly refused to even nourish himself. Unless it was a fast food—taken with the car—eaten on a parking lot—empty. 

Jean appeared in the doorframe and, when he realized Neil had aimed perfectly (as opposed to all over the bathroom) something on his face relaxed. The rest of his body, however, stayed tense to the core, like all the times he’d found Neil kneeling before the toilets with horrible sounds cutting his throats on the way down—or up.

The setting was different, but the sting was awfully familiar. He wasn’t sure how to help.

“Hey…” Neil didn’t answer that, he didn’t try to look at him, and he wasn’t even sure if he’d heard it or not. “Neil?”

The reply, although quick, made his chest tighten. It was a cry, choked down in whatever he was trying to get out of his body. It felt like Neil was choking, it really did—and his brows tangled as he wondered if Neil was really crying.

In another world, it might have been a cry for help. In this reality, nonetheless, it was the whole ridicule of Neil’s existence, simply displayed to Jean’s sight, and as he tiptoed his way closer to him, he expected to find him angry for being caught so pathetic. 

But it wasn’t the first time Jean had found him like that, that’s for sure, and when he crouched at his sides he found Neil’s eyes drowned in silent tears again, face desperate and infinitely tired. 

He felt it was too much of an intimate sight, and it was almost like violating Neil’s privacy—so Jean got up—but a hand awkwardly reached for his wrist and all that Neil can catch is the edge of the torn leather wristband Jean always wears. 

“Neil?” he asks again, unsure, button enough his warm palm leaves his wrist to curl around the edge of the toilets again, face disappearing into the tiny hole of it. 

There was something cold to it, the way he’d asked him to stay; something that sent shivers up his spine and made his brows twist. Jean had been enough of an asshole for the moment, still. He stayed there, standing behind Neil, completely ignorant of what he should be doing if there was even something to do about it. Neil choked again, and, from there, Jean could only see his crazy, red strands of hair—which probably needed some washing. It hurt to listen to it all, and it hurt to look at it even more, but Jean sat on the cold tiles next to the toilets and leaned against the wall.

He knew him well enough to know he wasn’t going up anytime soon.

When Jean woke up, he found Neil lying on the floor, horridly pale and lifeless. He wasn’t dead, but asleep, as Jean had been—but there was a sudden aspect to it, like sleep had struck him out of the blue. His body was shaking a little, though not as badly as it would if he had been awake, and Jean brought his knees up against his chest as he watched.

Neil’s tan skin had always made him look a sort of beautiful. A strange beauty that seemed to work with girls, and Jean, who had never been able to tan more than his forearms in aggressive summers, had envied him many times for it. But it was different now, as Neil was spread out on the floor like an abandoned corpse, lips probably too pale for it to be a good sign. Something was looking thoroughly abnormal, like all the blood inside his body was gone, like his skin had now faded to a sad matte grey.

Jean could almost hear the horrible sounds again, ones of Neil coughing the life out of himself down the toilet hole, and rubbed his eyes with a distinct sense of despair. It was fatigue, most of all, like nothing could be done.

So what was he supposed to do, now? He had brought the boy here, and now he was hurting, and it was going to get worse, because it wasn’t simply a sour hangover Neil was going through: he was sick. It was going to continue, again and again, and Neil had to go through all that without snapping.

And it was a ridiculous thought, Jean admitted, because if there was one to be likely to snap, it was Neil.

In the calm silence of the empty place, he wondered how lively Neil must have been back in high school. He wondered how lively he would have been if he’d gone to college too. Instead, he had distanced himself from his family and moved in with Jean, because the rent seemed correct and he didn’t demand much more than a clean bathroom and individually-managed groceries. 

In the end, it was laughable. The bathroom had never been clean, with all these nights Neil had spent above the toilets throwing his insides down; and it had been Jean who’d paid for food, for cleaning supplies, for all the services that place had required. And, along that, for Neil’s continuity—he had to be taken care of, from close or from afar, but with a rather astonishing regularity. Food had to inhabit the fridge or he wouldn’t bother to feed, water had to be instantly warm or he wouldn’t bother to shower, and the only thing that Neil seemed to know how to do was sleep. This, he did often. For worrying extended periods of time. Sometimes, he didn’t get up for days.

Jean rubbed his eyes again as he remembered the time he’d had to call Dan because Neil wouldn’t get out of bed for three days straight. He’d pissed his underwear and managed to fight with Jean without even getting out of bed, or talking, or merely opening his eyes. It had been the shortest, most intense fight they had ever had, and they had had many.

He couldn’t quite remember if he’d cried afterwards. From the weariness, from the worry, the responsibility he had never asked for but which he couldn’t abandon anymore. Neil was the crazy girlfriend who’d threaten to kill herself if dumped. Neil was the sick, sweet little baby that you could never admit was bound to die. It took guts to admit these things.

The sun was almost up and they hadn’t eaten anything yet. Jean was starving, all and despite the things he’d witnessed the night before, but something sick was stirring in his stomach. He wanted to wake Neil up, but he also didn’t, because Neil never looked as tolerable and peaceful as when he’d sleep.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, and rubbed his eyes some more. He’d put himself in some shit, clearly, and he was sure it was going to be the end of him.

Neil would bring him down, too, in his downfall, and there was no avoiding it.

Jean went downstairs and made tea, out of habit, because that’s what he did when Neil was sick; even though Neil hated it, even though Neil never drank the cups he’d drop by his bedside. He dropped a cup, but not by his bedside, this time—he put it on the bathroom floor, out of reach of Neil’s merger arm to prevent any accident, and crouched there for a while as if expecting Neil to open his eyes just then.

But Neil was gone, as he always was—and when he was gone, Jean was alone for good. He should enjoy the concept, but it was only more depressing: something about Neil, despite being profoundly messed up, was undeniably alive. It took up the space around and pumped the air. It drove you crazy, but at least you’d feel you’re not alone.

It’s only now that Jean realized it. He’d always thought Neil was the one to be truly alone, but everyone else was; Neil was a parasite, he wasn’t alone, in fact, he always invaded someone’s world. Someone’s atmosphere. Someone’s home—his. If Jean wasn’t there, then Neil would invade someone else’s, and as Jean would be alone, Neil would not.

Perhaps he would invade Dan’s or Matt’s or even Seth’s. Perhaps—and most likely—they would take care of him better than he was trying to.

He tried his pocket and recognized the thing he’d tried to ignore the entire previous day. A bottle, orange-tinted, full enough not to make a sound as he walked. He’d brought it on purpose, because he’d read it online on a shift that it could ease up the process or taking oneself away from hard drugs.

At first, though, giving Neil drugs to make him withdraw had seemed like a dumb concept. 

He put down, beside the lukewarm cup, two pills of whatever he’d found in the cabinet. He’d been given these things when he’d left the hospital after breaking his leg; they were supposed to be painkillers. He couldn’t remember the effect it had had on him, but he assumed it was because he didn’t care about these things, and then got surprised Neil had never stolen the pills before. Probably because he already stronger, more efficient ways to get high than going through Jean’s stacks of toothpaste and dusty disinfectants. 

Two pills seemed like a good deal to Jean. He figured Neil would know with a glance what type they were, most likely because Jean wasn’t the type to give Aspirin, certainly not to someone like Neil, someone whose headaches were never the problem.

Jean sat on the stairs of the front porch. There was stand all over it, but it was a feeling he didn’t mind; he’d spent too many summers here to really be bothered. If anything, he had missed this place. It was a place to find oneself, a place that, strangely, he figured Neil would like. 

The sea was just there, feet away, so very close. To people who had never left the city, it was like another world, and he knew the town well enough to know the touristic aspects of its beauty had mostly contributed to its existence. A town like this, without rich people building houses on the beach like in the Hamptons, or without old people spending their money in ice-cream shops and bourgeois restaurants, wasn’t more alive than the both of them. Jean and Neil. They were both dead, in their own ways.

Jean, now, realized that he was not only alone—but also fairly bitter. And not bitter in Neil’s peculiar way, which he found necessary and even amusing sometimes, a fine tool to verbally fight with, but in a lonely and sad kind of way. Jean was like those old people who shouted at kids to stay off their lawns, or kept their baseballs whenever they landed in their garden just to make the children cry. 

Maybe he had always confused tranquility and loneliness. Surely, Jean wasn’t one to make a difference between the two; to him, they always came as a pair and he’d accepted that long ago.

The sky was nice. It was sunless, and dark, but had hints of pastels here and there already. Jean knew the local sunrises by heart. People thought sunrises were the same all over the world and no matter the place, because, well, isn’t the same sun up in everyone’s sky? Actually, no: from here, with the sea and the sand and the silent breeze brushing against his cheeks, sunrises here were like waking up a second time, stirring yourself out of a sleep you didn’t even know was there. It was like existing, just for a moment, merely existing—without the depressing background or the personal problems or the fear of the future. There was nothing more than the sun, and the sea, and the breeze. You were sitting there and you could stay there forever if you wanted, because it seemed like you could. It was a thing to see, to realize what’s important and what is not.

Jean believed that a beautiful sunrise could put one’s priorities back into place, in the right order, eliminating the ones that clearly didn’t deserve to be called priorities. If someone listened to Jean, though, a boy who came from half-rural France, nature was the answer to everything, and he knew better. 

He breathed in. Jean was hungry, on a strong, painful level, but there wasn’t anything in the house to eat and he didn’t really want to leave Neil alone. He put his chin on his knees and closed his eyes, enjoying the way the breeze touched his skin. It was like a gentle kiss, although Jean hadn’t known many kisses in his life. His parents had never been great huggers, much less kissers, and he’d never really had a girlfriend before. The only thing known to history was a short, thirty minutes’ date which had ended very badly, and during which a speck on the lips had been shared by semi-accident. He’d never really felt the need to be kissed, not after growing up deprived from this sort of affection altogether; he couldn’t miss something he’d never had, could he?

Something fell, or at least, it sounded so; but Jean didn’t turn around for all that. He kept his eyes closed, even as footsteps were to be heard, slow and uneven, probably as weak as they sounded; not even when the mosquito net door was pushed open. 

He waited in silence, feeling a shiver of pleasure every time the breeze caressed his skin. When it did, black strands of hair cleared up his forehead, blown back by the wind. It felt fresh, and new, and terribly hopeful. All things Jean Moreau had neatly stayed far from.

“Mornin’.” It was a pitiful attempt, but it clearly was an attempt.

“Hi,” Jean said. There wasn’t much to say but this.

“Thanks,” Neil tried, and his voice was the same wavering sound he’d heard the last twenty-four hours. Uncertain, wary, careful. A bit scared—which scared Jean even more. 

It didn’t take much thought for Jean to figure he was talking about the pills. His eyes shot open and his hunger didn’t feel as desperate, suddenly, and it felt instead like he was about to throw up in his turn. He couldn’t tell if it was last night’s remnants, vague but unpleasant, or the urgent message his body was trying to give.

“Let’s not talk about it okay?” 

He didn’t check Neil’s reaction, but silence sealed the question on the positive.

There was no word about the tea, but Jean knew it was probably untouched on the bathroom floor, as it always was. Or maybe he’d taken it, with the pills, and it was sad to think it would be the only reason Neil would ever drink it. Not that it was that good, and not that Jean cared that much, but—it was, still.

“Can we go eat?” Neil finally asked, and it was a kid asking his mother for permission.

“Where?” he said, trying to conceal the surprise of Neil asking for food at all.

“I don’t know, it’s you who knows the place.” 

He felt like snapping something back but there was no point, and Neil was right anyway. He only retained that Neil had made the effort to get up, that he’d actually asked to be fed. Maybe it was supposed to be a progress thing.

“This place sucks,” Jean growled. That was usually the sort of things he kept inside, useless, but it was different now—there was Neil to complain to, and nobody else around to hear. 

In fact they were pretty much alone except for an old couple, probably locals, having coffee on the opposite side of the room. It made Jean feel older for some reason.

“No, I like it.” Neil’s face was weak and pale, an odd thing to look at, and it was painfully scary to sit in front of him, wondering if he’d have the reflex to turn away if he ever wanted to throw up. But the kid comparison still stood, and he was surprisingly happy to be here, in such a mundane, boring place, like he was visiting a different dimension he had never heard of before.

Whatever dimension it was, Jean knew it very well. There was only ennui—and it’d been fifteen minutes since they’d ordered their breakfast. 

“Why is it taking so long? We’re literally alone here. Are they playing cards in the kitchen or something?” 

Neil stared in a curious way. He wasn’t quite judgmental, didn’t even look interested in mocking his attitude, and Jean blamed the fatigue. Sleeping in the bathroom wasn’t the best idea to rest, that much was true—but then again Neil had stayed up late making sure he was done throwing up, quietly imploring his body to stop.

Still, there was something feeble and new in his eyes, like a strange calmness he’d just discovered himself. It was fragile, though, and it felt like a tiny flame on a shaky candle.

Maybe it’s the pills, Jean thought. He’d never actually known the side effects.

He looked… soft. Approachable. Like a wild animal suddenly tamed. 

“And here are your meals, pretty boys,” the waitress said as she put the plates before them. She was middle-aged, with red dyed hair and a clumsy line of black eyeliner. “Enjoy it,” she sang again with a smile before walking away. Neil stared as she left.

Jean looked down at his plate. It was a modest, homemade plate of scrambled eggs and beans, a meal without any kind of pretension that surely hadn’t required much imagination or a particular artistic effort from the cook. It was eggs—eggs and beans. Neil’s meal was a crêpe with butter inside, or caramel, he couldn’t tell. He watched expectantly as Neil poked the beige wrapping and cut right in the middle of it. Definitely caramel.

It was probably around eight in the morning, something like that. They had walked from home to there because it was only two blocks away and they needed to make their legs work a bit after spending the entire day in a car. Jean smelled like cigarettes, and Neil like vomit—both looking wretched and tired, older and quieter. It made their interactions differ instantly, though he couldn’t tell why. They were not getting along, not exactly, but tolerating each other—a difficult situation to be terrible to one another and they knew it. Jean knew it wasn’t something he could bear if it had to be full of fights and insults and cheap remarks.

“Will we go to the sea afterwards?” It was Neil, again, and he really did sound like a child. It sort of unsettled Jean, because none of them appeared responsible enough to be considered adults, but then again, he was in charge whether he wanted it or not.

They weren’t quite kids, either. Jean smoked, Neil was a drug addict, Jean drove, Neil fucked. They were like kids who had lost their innocence too early, and had to make up for it somehow.

“I don’t know, I feel like we could use a nap or something.” Jean tried really hard not to talk about what had happened the night before; remembering the sounds and the sight wasn’t so brilliant when he had scrambled eggs before him. And, too, he didn’t quite want to think of Neil lying on the floor like he was already dead.

Neil ran his fingertip over an old scar on his left forearm, preoccupied. “I mean I can go alone if you don’t want to. It’s right behind the house. Not like I can lose myself.” 

“You won’t,” Jean shook his head, and he watched as Neil frowned until he understood. “I’m not letting you go alone.” 

“I’m not five,” Neil snapped instantly, soft eyes clouded again. Suddenly, Neil was back, with all his dangerousness and the versatility of himself, the unpredictable attitude that always got him in trouble. It was an unpleasant surprise, and Jean felt a bitter taste in his mouth as Neil shut off completely. It was like he had to do it all over again, gain his trust and his respect although he’d never really earned either. 

Neil was like those terrible video games wherein failing the 150th level would bring you back to the very first one. Having to start all over again from the beginning. Eventually, you go crazy and you give up the game. He figured that’s what people did with Neil.

It was clear from the beginning that Neil was going to disobey, because that’s what Neil did—when they went home and Jean went to the toilets, he came out to find the couch empty, just like the rest of the house. By a glance through the window, he could tell it was Neil’s silhouette in front of the sea, facing the rest of the world with a sadness that stuck. Jean stood behind the window bay and stared, unsure why; maybe he was just waiting for Neil to do something wrong and prove him right. The sun was shy, then, and it made it look all the more miserable.

Jean didn’t really know what he was going to do. He didn’t even know what they were going to eat, then, when they were going to sleep, what they were going to do to keep themselves busy and distracted. Because, that’s certain, Neil needed distraction—if not to keep himself away from the toilets, then at least to keep himself away from the problems.

Bringing a junkie here didn’t like a brilliant idea at that very moment, but it was too late, and perhaps, just perhaps, Jean hoped for a second that Neil would get better.

He found Neil sitting by the toilets that night. It was black out and all the lights were on, making the whole house even whiter. It would have been a comforting place to be if it weren’t for Neil’s choking, a disgustingly familiar sound that breached a hole inside Jean’s chest, or his head, or perhaps both—because that sound had something terribly disheartening to it. It was heartbreaking as it was terrible. 

“Are you okay?” he asked though it was stupid to; but he only asked because Neil wasn’t puking.

Something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what; Neil was pale but he wasn’t shaking too much; he was quiet but still until, every once in a while, he’d choke and retch his own spit down the toilet. He looked jaded, done, with everything, eyes pleading for something soft.

Neil looked up and for a short, unsettling moment, Jean found something he’d never found there before, like a strong nostalgia or the ancient Neil. In his head, there were tons of crazy theories centred around his downfall, desperate reasons to explain why he had done the things he had done, and probably just to chase the guilt out of his mind. Sometimes he wondered if Neil hadn’t shone so bright before, so strong—if he hadn’t just run out of good things, of smiles, of happy moments. 

Neil’s lips moved as he tried to reply, but he was weaker than he looked and his shoulders were heavy. His head fell down like nothing was holding it back, and he could see all the tiny ropes inside Neil’s body breaking at the same time, giving up. It was a time for sleep, but neither of them were going to and he knew it. Jean could have walked out of the room and found his way to his own bed, they both knew that, too; but he stayed there and watched with something hard to describe in his usual frown. Each night, he wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. 

“Is it time for a pill? I—it isn’t really my thing. I don’t know anything about that. Do you have—” Jean tried and tried, because he really had no idea what else to do but this, and the pills felt too heavy in his pocket. They could make Neil feel better, make the pain and discomfort disappear instantly, but he had this insane, overwhelming fear that they would make things worse. 

“Jean,” is all Neil could say then. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the white-painted wall, his humid hair getting greasy with the sweat. Neil was shirtless and although there were no drops to see, he was covered in a thin layer of transpiration, shiny and teasing, from Neil’s scarred torso to the soft curve of his stomach. Jean had never noticed how light Neil must be—not eager, not quite, but it was easy to tell something was wrong with his body. From the inside, no doubt.

“Do you want the pills?” he asked again, and it sounded irritated, angry rather than panicked, because Neil’s vagueness was sickening at times.

The reaction was almost immediate, and it froze his blood all over: how Neil’s features tightened and held into place, tense, on the edge, every muscle of his body actively asking for help. Something wet came down Neil’s cheek although he had both eyes closed and sealed, and Jean realized with horror he was crying again—for real this time.

Neil’s tears were painful, burning his eyes and stirring something unpleasant inside, like a bit of him had to suffer for every shed tear. It hurt, but he knew he had to cry it out, now, because that was the only way to take the pain out. At least, that was the only way he knew how. He felt ashamed, and angry to have Jean see him again, like every previous time, and thought of being violently aggressive for a moment—at least it would be effective, like Jean would ever insist on staying here, with him—but he couldn’t move, even when something burned down his throat and he coughed crazily, even when he felt wet lines of tears meeting his lips and tasting a little too salty. So he let Jean stay, abandoned himself for a minute. Later, he would. Later. 

The answer was still vague, and Jean’s thumb recognized the bottle under the thin fabric of his black jeans. He could have ended the pain, right now, but as long as Neil wasn’t giving him the cue, he would not. 

And Neil didn’t do much, in fact, other than sitting there pitifully, like there was legitimately nothing else to do. 

“I can leave if you want,” he suggested. Something made him uneasy but he didn’t know which one of the two was the most embarrassed.

“What’s it going to change,” he got as a reply, and it’s forced and quiet and Jean had to focus to understand all the words. Neil’s voice wasn’t lost yet, but it was broken, and the usual lightness of it, the very same thing that made his sour remarks and shitty attitude so unbearable, well, it was gone. “You’ve already seen me doing worse than that anyways.” 

Jean stared at the tiles his feet were on. He was particularly ashamed to do it, like he should grow over this, but a small part of him was scared to meet Neil’s gaze, scared of what he would find there if he did. Jean had never liked to deal with hardship, especially not others’. It was easier to ignore it.

“Why are you looking away?” Neil asked, then, and he sounded like those old people about to die in dramatic movies. 

Frankly, Jean didn’t know. “I’m not,” he lied.

Neither of them addressed the blatant lie, and, instead, Neil gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes again, letting silent tears roll down again.

“I’m gonna… make you some tea, or something.” He knew the seconds were counted until Neil would tell him not to, not tea, at least, but there was only tea here. He felt like he had to rush out of the room, but when he did turn away, way too quickly even for himself, Neil choked out a word.

His name, in fact. “Jean?” 

He glanced above his shoulder. Neil had his eyes open, attentive and slightly confused. Something throbbed inside his chest, hard and painful, and he hoped it was a heart attack. He really did. 

For a brief moment it felt like Neil was about to say something stupid, something he wouldn’t have been saying otherwise. It felt both like a secret and a confession, something terrible that Jean would have had to treat as a burden, too, like giving the deadly disease to someone else in order not to die yourself. It looked like a selfish thing to say, but it didn’t go past Neil’s lips anyways, and died away in the silence before it was even born.

A secret unshared. It was clearly there.

“Just help me get to my room.” It was a modest demand and Jean thought he could do that.

He couldn’t deny him that anyway. Why else would he bring the boy here, if not to help? What was the point, if he wasn’t ready to do such mundane things in times of need? And by times of need, Jean meant, times of withdrawal.

As though trying not to scare Neil off, Jean approached at a correct pace. He’d never helped people get up before, because his grandparents were doing well, off somewhere in France, and his parents had never gotten sick. If anything, he totally ignored the approach, but figured he could offer his palm first.

Neil considered it, and stared at the open hand for a silent instant. It’s like he was trying to remember it, and the fierce lines that run from a side to another, barring the hand in millions of pieces. It’s like he was trying to take in the length of his long, slender fingers, to memorize the way they stood out, each of them, and how human they were. Flawed, dry, slightly twisted, but so very human. 

Eventually, he gave up. The effort to meet his palm with his own was excruciating and asked for a cringe—meanwhile, tears were drying up. He could still feel the exact trajectory of each of them down his cheeks and his lips and his chin; some even ran down his neck and made the sensation awful. He didn’t try to stop crying, because his eyes were still wet enough to let things go at any second, and his vision was blurry enough for it to be obvious, but he did rub his sleeve on his cheek to chase the feeling.

What Jean’s hand wrapping around his felt, he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t sure, but he was pretty certain he’d never held Jean’s hand before, even by accident. This kind of contact was easy to remember in its strange softness, something intimate and full of trust and—it gave him nausea. But Jean was respectful and didn’t try to rush anything, even though the distance he put between them did give him nausea, because it was so scared, so very scared.

It was warm, too. Comforting, if anything—and human. It was an inner epiphany of the outside world and all the people who, too, lived and met problems and faced them when the night came. A part of Neil would have liked for it to be in the daytime, because the daylight even when grey and faded was so much more comforting than the deep blackness of the night. And that was despite Neil’s undying love for the night.

Jean didn’t know where to put his hands. One held Neil’s, but the other tentatively met the curve of his back, strong and alive, twisting under his palm like a wild animal. Feeling that much life underneath, it was hard to believe Neil looked this dead. What was going on inside his head? He wondered.

And his body? Oh, he didn’t want to know.

Neil tripped when they passed the bedroom door, as Neil was in socks and the floor was slippery, and, for a second or two, Jean’s fingers dug down his sides, shirt tangled upwards, trying to keep Neil from falling. It was painful for Neil, first, but then he lost his balance in his fingers and Jean tried to get a better grip, slightly tighter, and the shirt fell down around his pale wrist.

Such a touch could have easily been mistaken as intimate, as something asked for and wanted, something quiet that both of them would often do. But it was almost stolen, almost illegal, because they didn’t touch each other at all, and Jean felt guilty when he sensed Neil’s eyes staring up at him, perhaps asking for an apology. Jean wasn’t going to give him any, however; all he had ever done so far was trying to help, and if he had to break down his barriers to keep him from falling, literally, then he would do it.

It felt like a danger, close and throbbing, to try and fix the broken thing that was Neil Josten—but he was now loyal to the task he had started. He couldn’t just leave, or let Neil go, both of them knowing how this would turn out. It didn’t need many words.

“Did it hurt?” Jean remembered out of sudden, as if the answer could change anything. It wasn’t worry, in fact, it sounded like a doctor trying to make a prognosis. It sounded detached, and neutral, and very naked question that wouldn’t affect him in any way no matter its answer.

Neil thought about it. Had it hurt? Well, he couldn’t tell—of course the way his fingertips had tried to get a grab of his ribs to keep him from slipping down had been painful, but it hadn’t been as loud as the touch itself, the warmth there was to it. For a guilty, disgusting second, Neil wanted him to do it again.

Jean took his hand off but the one in Neil’s didn’t feel like it was yet freed. He didn’t force it.

“It’s okay,” Neil decided. It had hurt, yes, but he had liked it still.

As he did with many things in his life.

Is it, Jean wondered again, and wondered, too, what was. His touch? The pain? Everything, perhaps?

His voice was soft now, as though nothing could get to him. It was a great illusion of safety and satisfaction, like Jean’s presence here was only a bonus, something not quite required but deeply desired. It wasn’t. 

Jean was there because they had silently agreed to, because nobody else would have done it if not for him. Jean was here because he’d had to take care of the boy, no matter how many times he would have to dig his fingers down his ribs.

There was a shared silence and both thought the same thing. So what, now? They searched for each other’s gaze to find the answer. None of them moved and Neil, sprawled on his bed then, took the edge of his shirt down. Jean distractedly followed the hand, caught a bit of exposed tan skin before it was hidden again—and standing there before the bed, with Neil straightened up on his elbows, it didn’t feel like that was where they were supposed to be. Jean in Neil’s room, probably not, anyways.

“I should—hm. I’m gonna just leave you alone now.” The voice was detached again, although slightly chagrined, and it fell like a punishment upon Neil’s face. He wasn’t okay with Jean leaving just now, leaving like that, but he kept his mouth shut. The only way to tell was his eyes and how fiercely they burned in silence. They were wet still, but he wasn’t crying anymore.

Jean met his gaze for the shortest time, so fast he almost thought he’d dreamed it—and then walked away, because he knew the quick way out was the easiest. He didn’t walk away swiftly, but he neither looked back nor turned around, which felt the same in the end.

On the couch, Jean knew it was past bedtime now. It felt too late, though, like he’d missed the train for good. He thought of checking up on Neil in an hour or two but something kept him glued to the couch—pride, or fear, or both, or maybe something darker he didn’t feel like explaining. The best he could do that night was lean to the side before dozing off, almost against his will.

  
  



End file.
